


A Guardian of Light

by wakandan_wardog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, If It Gets Resolved It's A Slow Burn Friends, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Character(s), Not Really Character Death, One-Sided Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Body Experiences, Past Character Death, Protective Frigga (Marvel), Protective Steve Rogers, Spirit Animals, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers-centric, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-02 00:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14532618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakandan_wardog/pseuds/wakandan_wardog
Summary: a.k.a. that time Steve sank the Valkyrie in the Arctic and became a spirit-walking wolf to guide Tony, at Frigga’s suggestion.(An alternate universe take post Captain America through Iron Man 1, potentially all the way to Avengers).





	1. The End of a Life?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [XiRecon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XiRecon/gifts).



> I fully admit this has been a work was created in 2014 and has just been sitting.. Hoping that someone thinks it is interesting so I may be inspired to finish it. Ware, readers, it's incomplete and may get time-skippy toward the end.

It is beyond frustrating to see Bucky fall away, to know even with this body made better by the Super Soldier Serum, he has failed his best friend. Bucky was a hero, a soldier and a brother and the only person Steve trusted without hesitation or limit… And Steve had lost him. Had lost his best friend due to his own stupid mission and his own failure to move fast enough… _It’s my fault, Buck…_

Steve can’t do anything to save Bucky now, can’t make himself scramble for his shield and finish the mission. He’s sure one of his men will handle it, in some distant part of his brain. But really, it doesn’t matter… Because all he can see is Bucky falling away, arms outstretched… _Bucky, I’m so damn sorry…_

_I failed. I failed, I failed I failed, Buck… And I’m so damn sorry._

Right now all he can do is clutch the railing, staring out at the sharp drop as the words repeat over and over again, a loop in his head that begins and ends with his best friend’s scream. He can’t fight it, can’t shake it off. Right now all he can do is watch snowy mile after mile pass by, the train speeding along, carrying him further and further away from where his best friend fell to his death. After a while the flashing white is more than Steve can stand, and he hides his face against the unfeeling steel of the wall, tears dripping silently down his face. There’s no escaping this, his best friend is gone. 

Rage builds, bitter and unmoving, like a dragon come to roost in his chest. _Bucky, why did it have to be you?_

*

They finish the mission, they capture Zola, and he’s locked safely away in S.S.R. custody, fearfully spilling information about Hydra to avoid them declaring him worthless. Steve doesn’t go see the mousy little man, feels nothing but contempt at his cruelty and cowardice. This is a man that experimented on and killed U.S. Soldiers, this was the man that had strapped Bucky down to a chair and tore at his brain until all he could do was repeat his military information like a broken record. 

This was the man Steve had rescued his friend from, only to lose Bucky later when they attempted to hunt the bastard down. _‘It’s his fault as much as mine, Buck’s death… His and Red Skull’s.’_

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Bucky falling away. Hears his best friend scream, feels the horror all over again. So he completes his mission, returns to base, does his duty and retreats as soon as he gets the chance. But Steve has no memory of leaving the train, of debriefing after the mission. No memory of retrieving his shield, going back to his room, stripping out of the Captain America uniform. At some point he showered, trying the wash away the cold and drown out the image of Bucky’s fall. But he doesn’t recall it. He debriefed, wrote out his report, attended a dozen meetings, spoke to the rest of the Howling Commandos. 

His men are fine, except for one… The best one, the guard of his left flank and his second in command. _‘Bucky.’_

On a night they’re finally back on familiar ground, an S.S.R. base that they had first visited so the Commandos could get outfitted for their first official mission, Steve manages to shake off the sensation of auto-pilot long enough to come to a decision. Sitting in his room, Steve pauses in his sketching of the shadowed train and Bucky’s fall. It hurts too much to look at, so he slams the book shut and tosses it aside. _‘This isn’t working.’_

He can’t stand to sit here and stare at his surroundings, to subject himself to another briefing or stare at the bland walls of his quarters or look at sketches of his best friend. _‘Your dead best friend… Dead because you failed.’_

Steve abruptly stands, dressing on auto-pilot without hesitation. It’s not until he’s knotting that his tie and affixing medals that he realizes he’s putting on his military uniform instead of the ash-streaked Captain’s costume. The guns he leaves locked in his trunk, but he can’t help the urge to scoop up the shield and take it with him. As obvious as the graduating circles of red and blue and the bright white star are, he determines it’s for the best to keep it out of sight unless he needs it. Without hesitation he tucks his shield into a sturdy leather satchel, slinging it over his shoulder before he disappears into the city. 

It’s easier than he expected to slip out from the watch of his men, seeking solace in the bar where the Howling Commandos had officially begun. The last time he had ‘leave’, he’d been here. But there was no void at his left as there had been, because he’d been here with his best friend that time. _‘And now Bucky is gone.’_

Even with the placed half-destroyed and furniture overturned, the Captain America tour poster is still hanging on the wall. Steve settles on the barstool where Bucky had sat, frowning into the glass of scotch. There’s a bottle just beyond it, three-quarters empty due to Steve’s solitary effort. He can’t get drunk, his body has more than proved it… But that doesn’t mean he feels like stopping either. 

He lifts the glass and sips, glaring into the shadowed remains of the building. This far through the bottle and he still doesn’t feel anything, nothing except the faint burn with each sip. No real warmth, no softening of the pain in his chest. He knows his eyes are red-rimmed from crying, his fingertips no longer scratched from the first glass he’d shattered in anger. He lifts the glass and drinks, focusing on the burn, on the cool scrape of crystal against still-healing skin. It doesn’t do a damn thing, but the label and the chance to sling it back would have made Bucky grin, and it’s that image that Steve fights to hold onto as he finishes it off and pours himself another glass. 

He can’t even bring himself to shake the sorrow when Peggy arrives. The click of her heels on concrete, and then tile announcing her approach. Steve lets her sneak up on him, staring unseeingly at the wall, fingertips still curled around his glass. He doesn’t care to turn and look at her face, doesn’t care that she’s beautiful and seemed to favor him even over Bucky’s flirtatious advantages the last time they were here. She’d been flirting with him, hadn’t even given Buck a second glance… And none of it meant a damn thing now. 

Instead of saying much of anything, he growls about the Serum, how it changed his cells and now he can’t even get drunk to numb the pain of his loss. She circles the room when it becomes apparent he won’t turn to face her, her tone gentle. 

_‘Did you trust your friend? Did you respect him?’_

Steve lifts his gaze away from where his hand has clenched on the half-full glass, jaw tense as he tries to remember why he shouldn’t crush it to dust. He can’t even spit an answer at her, rage rising high in his heart. He settles her for giving the coldest look he can summon, blue eyes gone icy and lips flattened as he tries to hold back a snarl. _‘You didn’t know a damn thing about Buck. Of course I did.’_

“Then why don’t you accept that this was his choice? That it wasn’t your fault that he fell, and he is a hero… But Steve, you are too. And right now? Right now we still need you, your men need you to lead them, especially with Sargent Barnes gone.” 

_‘Sargent Barnes.’_ Steve things with a bitter sneer. _‘Hell… Bucky would have hated that. Maybe it’s a good thing you never paid him any mind after all. But since you never did, how could you even begin to understand?’_

*

He shakes it off, because he has to. Because Schmidt is still out there, somewhere, and damn if Steve will let the rest of the world burn. He’s going to get the bastard that did this, that took and tortured his best friend… That killed him just when Steve had gotten him back. He’s gonna find the damned Red Skull and burn Hydra to the ground. 

There will be no heads left, when Steve is done. He owes Buck that much. 

_‘I’ll do it for you, Buck… And I’ll let the Commandos in on some of it, since you’re not here to help me… But you know I wish you were, I wish that more than anything… And I hope you’re watching when I hunt these sons of bitches down._

As he directs the nose of the plane downward, and talks about taking Peggy on a dance, it is his best friend that he’s thinking of. He knows Buck would have laughed himself silly to hear Steve making a date, especially a military dame. Considering the fact that Steve had always run away from dates to try for a health exam to get into the military, it made a certain kind of sarcastic sense that now Steve was offering to walk away from the military for a dame. 

A date wasn’t a resignation, but that wouldn’t have stopped Bucky from making the joke. _‘It’s never enough for you, is it Steve?’_

Steve sighs, giving a half smile that is more bitter nostalgia than true humor. The ice and snow are fast approaching, and his best friend’s laughter is ringing in his hears. _‘Wait up, Buck… I’ll see you soon. Don’t walk through the gates till I get there, alright?’_


	2. Waking

He wakes slowly, heavily, his brain rushing to assess his body for damage. From what he can tell, all responses are made uncoordinated by previously unknown trauma (if he were to venture a guess based on how sluggish his limbs feel and how reluctant his brain is to actual understand). It is a guess that will have to do, no one seems to be around to confirm it. 

Besides, wherever he is doesn’t exactly smell like medical. There is no medicinal bite to the air, and no hacking cough to rend him apart as it gloats over his relapse. He can’t hear the movement of soldiers or the rumble of engines or the obnoxious drone of monitoring equipment. In fact, he can’t hear anything except for the thrum of his heart and the slight panicked increase of his breathing. 

Bewildered, Steve tries to shake sleep away and swim toward consciousness… But his body feels very heavy and biting cold makes him hesitate. It is a little warmer here, hidden deep in the dark, his mind argues. Steve’s never done well with the cold, anyway, so he hesitates. Any adrenaline response he may have had has long since deserted him, tension unspooling until he’s reluctant and possibly unable to move. 

Safer. Quiet. Stay here. 

And he does, lulled back to the void of the dark. 

There’s nothing he needs to fight for anymore, anyway. 

_Be still._

Steve stills. 

_Good.... That is good, Steven. Rest, and heal._

Unsure why he trusts, or why he obeys, Steve rests... Maybe this is all Heaven really is? He's too weary to fight to learn the answer. 

Time immeasurable unspools, and Steve rests. 

**Now. Wake.**

Steve surges into consciousness, all at once awake and aware and nerves screaming at him to act. He’s no longer alone, a figure that shouldn’t feel familiar but _does_ standing before him. 

The woman has softly curling hair bound back in a curious style, different than the victory rolls he’s used to most dames wearing. The golden headband resting amongst the curls is almost like a circlet, she feels like a Queen in his head. There’s no other way to describe it, but since only the two of them are there he doesn’t think it matters. Her garments are flowing robes and there is welcome in her eyes. 

He doesn’t know what to make of her. Still, even without words he knows it is her voice that lulled him to sleep, that healed him, that summoned him to wakefulness. 

She makes him think of another regal lady he knows, and he narrows his eyes as he tries to concentrate. 

Suddenly, fittingly, there is a headdress radiating spires crowning her head. He nods in satisfaction at the copper spikes that mimic rays of the sun. The color suits her golden hair better than the oxidized sea foam shade on the real thing. Not that he’ll ever see it again to compare them, anyway. He’ll probably never see home again, so at least he has this. 

One hand rises and delicate fingers trace one spike, the woman’s expression gone thoughtful. 

_‘Interesting.’_ She tells him, her hand falling away. _‘It is not mine, but I take it this is significant to you?’_

Steve doesn’t particularly feel inclined to use words, so he shrugs, or at least tries to give that impression. 

She nods, like she understands him perfectly and gives a faint smile. For reasons unknown, the headdress remains. 

It feels like victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorceress Queen Frigga here to save our boy, I can't help but love her?  
> Also yes: Steve put the crown from the Statue of Liberty on Frigga.  
> Lowkey shout out to Manicies, and pardon my lack of chill, but your comment was so appreciated I thought I would offer a token of appreciation.


	3. A Crown Like the Sun

Steve wakes up again, still weary and raw-edged, to see the beautiful woman again. There is a carved wooden table and matching chairs set not far off, a warm rich red-brown that plays well with the russet color of today’s gown. Still golden haired and wearing the spire crown Steve bestowed upon her, she is sitting at the table, with a basket full of fiber at her feet. 

As he watches she drops a spindle, using the weight of the object to twin the fiber into a smooth yarn. Her moves are graceful and practiced, fingertips sorting through and carding the fiber into narrow sections that are easily spun. Then she gathers everything up again, wrapping the thread that is spun to her liking before moving on to another section and beginning all over again. The fiber is soft and cloud-white, perhaps from a sheep. It narrows and twists with handling, and as the lady spins and twists it, Steve can detect a golden hue. He narrows his eyes for a moment, shaking his head to ensure he’s seeing what he actually thinks he’s seeing. But yes, the thread is softly glowing as she wraps it around the spindle, gathers more fiber, then begins again. 

Steve can’t find the words to ask what she’s doing, but he thinks it, trying to move closer. 

“Do not strain yourself.” She cautions, frowning at the fiber and smoothing a snare before resuming her careful spinning. “You require much more rest and care before you will be up to any of your normal feats of strength or stubbornness.” 

Steve feels a rush of annoyance at his helplessness, unwilling to be still, reluctantly accepting. 

She nods, setting aside her project and turning kind eyes to him. Steve watches the light catch on the spires and settles, contentment stirring again. It is nice, like he gave a gift that she has approved of. 

“You are thinking of this.” The woman murmurs, gesturing to one of the spires. “It is significant, but I still do not understand why. Why would you, who does not know who I am, give me such a gift?” 

_‘Who are you, then?’_

“My name is Frigga.” 

_‘Frigga. Where I come from, it means something.’_

“What might that be?” 

Lacking the energy to put it into any words of his own, Steve remembers a fragment of the poem. At a loss, he focuses on it, attempts to send it with all of his will, along with the image of the Statue. 

_'A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame; Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name; Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand; Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command…’_

His vision goes hazy at the edges, shadows creeping in on the soft golden and white light until he can hardly focus on more than her face. 

Frigga tilts her head, considering, and then smiles gently. “That was very good, Steven, but I feel you may have over extended yourself. Rest now, and heal, I will be here when you awaken.” 

_But-_

_Rest, Steven._

Unable to argue, Steve drops off into sleep. 

His last image is a golden face, and a crown like the sun.   

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines Steve sends to Frigga are lines New Colossus by Emma Lazarus from 1883. The Sonnet was written to raise money for a pedestal for the Statue of LIberty. He and I both agree it's fitting for Frigga in this, as she has taken him in and is saving his neck.


	4. Introduction to a Higher Calling (The Baby)

Steve’s not aware of the passage of time, knows that he drifts, that he sinks into the black, surfaces again. Anytime he manages to open his eyes it’s always the perfect spring day, the light softly golden and pale green, Frigga spinning or carding more of that strange, cloudlike fiber nearby. She usually smiles at him, eyes gentle and understanding, before returning to her task. They don’t always speak, sometimes she tells him to rest again, sometimes she just seems to wait. 

Time stretches like syrup in winter, Steve wakes, and sleeps, and wakes again. 

Today, though, today things are different. Today he wake with his head in Frigga’s lap, with awareness of the area around them. 

_‘I understand your reluctance to heal.’_ She murmurs to him, her fingertips gentle over his hair. 

As usual, Steve is not inclined to respond. He blinks lazily, letting the image of a sunlit meadow disappear behind his golden lashes for a moment. When his eyes open again, the scenery has not changed. The pool he rests beside is still glimmering in the sunlight like a mirror abandoned amongst emerald grass. A gentle breeze plucks at the wildflowers, ruffles the grass and water into soft waves, carries the scent of distant trees. 

This is a nice enough place to be, he’s decided. It would be better still with Bucky, but if this is all Fate will grant him, Steve can find a way to accept that. His will to fight and rage has drained since he woke up in this place, all of his emotions pleasantly distant. He knows they’re there, somewhere, hidden behind the fog… But it doesn’t quite feel important enough that he’ll go tearing at it. Instead he drifts along the edges, letting memories echo over him like clouds drifting over the sun in spring. They never linger, and once they have passed it is easy enough to forget. 

And if there is a pull in his chest like a weight, Steve draws a deeper breath of sunlit-breeze and stubbornly ignores it. 

_‘You really can’t afford to linger like this anymore.’_ She warns. _‘He will be needing you, soon.’_

_‘Who?’_ He wonders. 

She responds as if she hears the words anyway. _‘Come. I will show you. You have lingered here too long as it is… Perhaps, after you have met him, you will understand.’_

_‘Understand what?’_

_‘Rise and I will show you.’_

Steve rises, wavering on his feet for a moment when dizziness threatens to overwhelm him. 

_'This will not do... I had hoped you would have made more improvement, by now._ Frigga frowns at him, a look of concentration darting over her face, and suddenly they’re standing in a handsomely decorated nursery. Steve’s no longer as tall as he was, no longer unbalanced on two feet. 

He stands on four golden paws, head level with Frigga’s hip. _‘What did you do?’_

_‘Gave you a more efficient shape.’_ She retorts carelessly. _‘The other is not suitable right now, you sustained too much damage in your reckless attempt to cross over to your friend. No matter, I will repair the damage, in time. Until then, this shape is better. Maybe you can start over._

The squalling infant in the crib before them shouldn’t be able to make so much noise as he is… Especially since he doesn’t seem to take the time to breathe between piercing cries. There’s a sudden lurch in Steve’s chest, affection welling up inside him. 

Steve wants him more than he has ever wanted anything, and throws himself across the nursery without a thought. 

Steve wants to hold him. 

He can’t though. Can’t reach out without arms, and even in his new shape he can’t seem to touch anything in the room, much to his displeasure. Instead he watches as she does. As she lifts the precious child and cradles him, soothing. 

_‘Shhh Anthony.’_ Frigga croons. _‘Brave Antonio. Precious one.’_

Brown eyes, formerly screwed tightly shut as the baby wailed, are suddenly open and clearly focused. But the noise doesn’t cease, the child refuses to be soothed. Steve hates her and loves her all at once. Angered she can croon to this child and yet not soothe him. But soothing him is Steve’s job, and yet, he cannot either. Not yet. That will take progress. 

_‘Shhh son who is not mine, savior and destroyer of worlds.’_ She croons, unfazed by the noise or the fact that the babe refuses her comfort. _‘Settle now, unmaker, pain bringer, light bearer… Settle, joy of a thousand hearts, wish granter, soul maker, defender. I have brought you a gift… Something to lift your spirit for all of the days of your life… A companion always, whether you walk in darkness or in light.’_

And she kneels so the babe can see him.

The screaming stops. 

A tiny hand reaches out and fists in a golden pelt that may as well be made of sunbeams and starlight. But for this child it is not, for this child, Steve is real. The little fist closes, the grip tightening, and Steve can feel it. 

The baby smiles, teary eyed, and gives a soft giggle when Steve lets himself nuzzle one silken cheek. Whatever he’s become, whatever this child will be, they belong to each other. 

The lady smiles, sharp and knowing as she rocks the boy gently. _‘Are you ready to begin?’_

Even though she is looking at the baby, it is to Steve whom she speaks now. 

_‘Teach me how to be with him.’_ Steve demands with quiet fury, fierce love. _'How I can keep him safe. Teach me all you can.’_

Frigga smiles. _‘Very well, Steven.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit, this chapter has some of my favorite lines I've written about Tony Stark, mostly centered around Frigga as she 'true names' him and lists off some of his titles or roles that he'll later fulfill in life.


End file.
